A lady from Glasgow talking to a lady from Morningside (posh area in Edinburgh).

Glasgow lady: Do you have big rates in Morningside? ("Rates" = property taxes)

Morningside lady: Oh heavens no! Maybe a few small maice, but no rates!

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There is a story that a German spy was dropped into England during WW2. He was dressed as a country gent, complete with plus-fours. Unfortunately, he had learned to speak English by reading P. G. Wodehouse novels.http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/P._G._Wodehouse

Reminds me of a true story. In the town I grew up in, there was a gent who had spent some time working in Iraq. He had a habit of starting conversations with "When I was in Baghdad....". Because of this, he was usually referred to as Baghdad Shaw.

Anyway, he must have done quite well in Iraq, and he had a very nice villa in the poshest street in town. One day, when his wife was having a coffee morning at their house, a local worthy was delivering manure to fertilize their garden by horse and cart. Much to the horror of Mrs Shaw, he dumped the load right on the front lawn.

She ran out of the house and gave him a right good telling off. "You should not have put that there without asking" she yelled. The carter dutifully shovelled all the manure back into the cart. He then went to the front door and rang the doorbell.

When Mrs Shaw came to the door, he said, in the loudest voice possible,

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